


An Object For Your Worship

by fatal_drum



Series: Hungry Gods [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Gore, M/M, Manipulation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Rope Bondage, Spanking, Threesome, Victim Blaming, beholding kink, demisexual Jonathan Sims, grotesque imagery mixed with sex, possessive Jonathan Sims, sex as claiming, sex as religious experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 09:50:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19170832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: Late one evening, Peter sends Jon a text inviting him to "enjoy the show."Jon knows he shouldn't look.He also knows he will anyway.





	An Object For Your Worship

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to @cuttooth and @nelja for their feedback and encouragement! And thank you to everyone who commented on the first fic! You guys are all wonderful! <3

**** Jon was poring over a statement regarding an unexpected solar eclipse in Côte d’Ivoire when his mobile chimed. Normally he would ignore such distractions, but it was late on a Friday evening, and people rarely bothered to text him. He didn’t recognize the number. 

_ Hope you enjoy the show. ;-) - P.L.  _

The words left him feeling inexplicably cold. There was only one person “P.L.” could be, and whatever he meant by his message, it couldn’t be good. 

His first impulse was to demand an explanation. Something told him, however, that Peter was not in the mood to furnish answers. Alternatively, Jon could ignore him. He could continue reading Ms. Diawara’s account of the sudden darkness that had fallen over her town on a July evening seven years before. He considered doing just that, but the message grated him. The word choice, the over-familiar tone—not to mention the obnoxious smiley face. 

Ignoring it was not an option. Taking a deep breath, Jon shut his eyes and opened the door just a crack, letting his god fill him with its presence, like cold water seeping into dry soil. He found himself suspended in the dark London sky. At first he saw only endless stretches of stone and metal, roadways leading from nowhere to nowhere, a seething morass of humanity. Then something flickered in the distance, and he pulled himself towards it. 

He wasn’t surprised to find himself in Peter Lukas’s apartment. Peter lived in the kind of easy luxury that came with old money, with none of the ostentation of the nouveau riche. He was accustomed to flawless surroundings and felt entitled to the best flat in an already obscenely expensive area. He looked perfectly at home lounging on a sofa that cost more than Jon’s annual stipend, sipping a well-aged scotch that was worth even more.  

Someone knocked on the door, and Peter smiled to himself. Something told Jon he should look away before it was too late, but he could no more stop himself than he could cut off one of his limbs. He knew from experience how impossible that was. 

Jon’s heart nearly stopped when the door opened to reveal a familiar face.  _ Martin. _ Jon hadn’t seen him since that time he’d cornered him at the Institute. Jon drank in the sight of him, the messy hair, the tatty jeans, the battered pink trainers. He looked incredibly uncomfortable in Peter’s space, sneaking shy glances around the room. 

“Martin!” Peter greeted warmly, throwing an arm over his shoulder and leading him to the sofa. The sight of his hands on Martin made Jon’s fists clench at his sides. Martin deserved better than being pawed at by monsters. 

Ignoring Martin’s protests, Peter poured him a glass of wine, forcing it into his hands as he crowded him onto the couch. Martin seemed to relax after the first cautious sip, not even protesting when Peter sat far too close. Martin wasn’t a small man, but Peter was tall and broad-shouldered, and he dominated the space. 

“You, er...wanted to speak to me about something?” Martin said shyly. 

“Actually,  _ I _ did,” Elias corrected from the doorway. He was looking incredibly well for someone who’d spent the last several months in prison, particularly when he was still meant to  _ be _ there. Jon felt his chest tighten. Whatever was happening here, whatever “show” Peter meant to put on,  it didn’t bode well for Martin. 

“What is  _ he _ doing here?” Martin demanded, turning to glare at Peter. 

Jon ignored the excuses they made, caught by the sly curves of their smiles. They were clearly relishing Martin’s discomfort, even if Martin couldn’t see it, caught as he was in their game.  Jon wrenched his attention away from the scene, opening his eyes long enough to dial Martin’s mobile, but it went straight to voicemail. He dialed again. 

Elias was still talking when Jon returned his attention to the scene. 

“You’ve been working for the Institute for a long time, haven’t you?” he asked. “Living under the Eye’s protection, while our god asks precious little of you.”

It was a lie, but Martin nodded anyway. 

“Beholding has given you many things: a role to fill, a purpose to live for—even an object for your worship, as aloof as he may be.” 

Jon felt himself flush at the ridiculous claim, but Martin didn’t deny it, staring down at his lap and worrying at a hole in his jeans. Jon’s pulse raced. He’d heard the gossip about Martin’s feelings for him, but this...this was something else. Jon wasn’t a god; he wasn’t even a good avatar. 

He certainly didn’t deserve anyone’s worship, much less Martin’s.

“You’ve fed our god dutifully, providing it with the research and the statements that are our lifeblood. However, if you want to go further—if you truly want to help the Archivist—our god needs more from you, Martin.” Elias paused for effect, making certain his hooks sank deeply enough into Martin.  _ “I _ need more from you.”

Suddenly Jon understood exactly what was going to happen, and wished he didn’t. Martin was slower to come to the same conclusion. Jon witnessed the moment he finally understood, and his face flushed scarlet as his hand shot up to cover his mouth.  Peter took hold of his chin, forcing him to look up, and Jon was seized with an urge to  _ hurt him,  _ to claw away the hand from Martin’s face, to make him regret even  _ looking  _ at Martin Blackwood. 

Perhaps it wasn’t too late to stop it, Jon thought desperately. He could find them, even break down the door if he had to. His brow furrowed as he tried to place the scene, to find a  _ where _ for them, but it was useless; his gaze was trapped there, caught like a wrist in a steel trap. He couldn’t pull back, couldn’t trace the path from Peter’s flat back to his body. 

As Jon watched, Elias and Peter played Martin expertly. When Peter released him, Elias was there to take over, to stroke his hand and whisper poison in his ear, smirking as he told Martin what a fine show they would make of him. Sick bastard. They sensed Martin’s resolve weakening, like sharks on the scent of blood, creeping into Martin’s space. Peter draped himself over Martin, touching him as if he had every right, and Martin  _ let him.  _

“Jon wouldn’t want me to do this,” Martin said. 

Jon felt a surge of hope. Perhaps Martin had enough sense of preservation to run, no matter what lies they told him—or even truths. Jon didn’t care if the Eye needed Martin. Jon needed him more. 

His hope was shattered when Elias finally came in for the kill. 

“You’re not obligated to accept our god’s gifts,” Elias said. “We can still keep you locked away in the office as Jon desires, safe from harm. There’s really no  _ need _ for you to serve him directly.”

_ Don’t do it,  _ Jon pleaded silently.  _ Don’t, don’t,  _ don’t.

Martin’s voice was small as he said, “Tell me what you want me to do.” 

Peter and Elias smiled as one, cold predator’s smiles that never reached their eyes. 

“You can start with taking off your clothes,” Elias said. He’d always had the trick of making an order seem like a polite suggestion, and Martin obeyed as Elias leaned back to watch. 

Jon should have opened his eyes, should have looked away as Martin stood and began to strip, but he didn’t. He drank in every inch of Martin’s tall frame, his broad shoulders followed by the softness of his belly and the round curve of his arse. His pants had cartoon badgers on them. They were so  _ Martin _ they made Jon’s throat tighten painfully. Martin’s face flushed as Peter divested him of his pants, exposing him to the room. 

Jon had never understood what others found so interesting about naked bodies. To him, flesh was an overrated distraction. The sight of a nude man was rarely enough to inspire lust in him—and lust was not what he felt when he looked at Martin. Martin’s skin was pale pale and dotted with freckles, with reddish-brown hair scattered across his chest and groin. His cock was longer than he’d expected, hanging vulnerably between his thighs. The sight of his exposed skin triggered a strange swell of protectiveness in Jon, an urge to keep Martin locked away, away from prying eyes. He wondered what it would be like to touch him, to know the texture of his skin, feel the firmness and the give of his body. His hands itched to reach over and find out, a strange and unwelcome longing. 

As he watched, Peter pulled Martin’s hands behind his back, binding them together as if he had any hope of  escape. Another rope went about his chest, forming a harness, then looped around his throat. He and Elias seemed to take a vicious pleasure in teasing Martin about his desire for helplessness, telling him how good he looked wrapped up for them like a gift. Martin’s skin flushed a deeper pink, his cock rising firm from between his legs as they shoved him into Peter’s lap, forcing him to rely on them for balance. When Peter’s hand grazed Martin’s nipple, he gasped out loud. 

“So sensitive,” Peter told him, and Elias took the game a step further, pinching him cruelly. Soon Martin was squirming between them, nipples stiff and swollen, caught between their groping hands. 

To Jon’s horror, he felt himself beginning to harden. He fought the sensation, willed it away as best he could, but then Peter grabbed Martin and kissed his mouth. The sight of them kissing, coupled with the low and needy sound from Martin’s throat, made Jon want to  _ scream.  _

“Such a little slut,” Elias said, sinking his teeth into Martin’s shoulder. 

_ “Our _ little slut,” Peter corrected.  

_ Not yours, not yours, not yours,  _ Jon shouted in his mind.  _ You can’t have him.  _

But they  _ would _ have him. Martin was letting them, bowing his head so prettily and letting them call him whatever they liked. When they tired of simply toying with him, Peter carried him to the bedroom, slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

Jon’s eyes snapped open, and he hit redial, praying Martin would hear the ring. When it went to voicemail, he dialed again, swearing. 

When Jon closed his eyes again, Martin was bound obscenely, legs spread as wide as they would go, his anus and genitals on vulgar display. Martin squirmed, seemingly caught between shame and arousal. For a moment Jon allowed himself to imagine they were alone together, that the sight was his alone. A surge of  _ want _ cut through him, sharp as a blade, followed by a wave of guilt.

Then Elias ruined the illusion by touching him. “I’m sure plenty of men would love to be in Jon’s position,” he said, wrapping possessive fingers around Martin’s cock and making him bite his lip. 

“He doesn’t have a single clue what to do with attraction, you realize,” Elias continued. “For all the Eye has revealed to him, he hasn’t figured out what do with other people’s feelings.” 

Jon scrubbed his hands over his face, as if he could hide from the words and the wave of shame they brought with them. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Martin said. “I don’t—I don’t need—”

“But you want it.” Elias twisted his wrist just so, making Martin whine high in his throat, limbs straining against the restraints as his toes curled.  

“Will you ever shut  _ up?”  _ Martin panted. 

Elias laughed and claimed his mouth in a kiss, knotting his fingers in Martin’s hair and pulling hard. He swallowed the low, needy noises Martin made.  

“You’ve been mine all along, you realize,” Elias said, brushing Martin’s hair behind his ear. “This is just the first time I’ve chosen to show you.”

_ He’s not yours,  _ Jon wanted to shout,  _ he doesn’t belong to either of you!  _

_ You can’t  _ have _ him.  _

Jon nearly bit through his lip as Peter kissed his way up Martin’s thighs, stealing what didn’t belong to him, biting and sucking and kneading the tender flesh, forcing Martin to beg for Peter’s mouth on his skin. 

The sight made an emptiness gape inside Jon’s chest, a void where more data should be. He could see what Peter was doing, could observe Martin thrashing against the ropes at his wrists and ankles, but it wasn’t enough. He didn’t know what Martin tasted like, what he smelled like, what Martin’s skin would feel like under his tongue. The lack of knowledge  _ burned.  _

“You little whore,” Elias said. 

Jon ached to slap the words from his mouth, but Martin just moaned and pushed back against Peter’s face. The unexpected reaction triggered a multitude of scenarios in Jon’s mind, so many questions he desperately wanted answered. Would Martin beg so prettily for Jon’s tongue? Would he react the same to being declared as Jon’s property,  _ his _ toy, his  _ whore? _  Jon pressed his fingers to his mouth, breathing shakily.   

Elias slipped his own fingers between Martin’s lips as he kept up his stream of filth, ruthlessly fucking his mouth. Martin writhed between the two men, a trickle of saliva escaping the corner of his mouth. 

“You want more of Peter inside you, don’t you? You’d take his entire fist if you could.” Elias taunted. 

Unbidden, an image flashed before Jon: Martin stretched out in his own bed, hips propped on a pillow as Jon opened him with aching slowness, one finger at a time. He could imagine the slick press of his hole gripping him, squeezing him, urging him inside, as Martin begged him for more and more. For a moment it felt achingly real, so close he could almost taste it; but then Martin moaned aloud, and Jon’s attention snapped to the situation at hand. 

Martin was in shambles, his skin broken out in sweat, hair clinging to the sides of his face as Peter thrust blunt fingers into his hole.  “Want to see you,” he mumbled, sounding half-drunk with need. 

That bit of petulance earned him a hard slap across his buttocks, a sharp fleshy sound that filled Jon’s ears. Martin bit his lip, thrashing helplessly, arse turning first pink,  then red. Peter leaned in to kiss Martin’s mouth, and they took turns with their vicious teasing, pinches, bites, and slaps. Martin struggled to form words, tears filling his eyes as he finally cried,  _ “Please let me come!”  _

As one, they converged on Martin, Peter swallowing his cock as Elias forced fingers into his greedy hole. Martin keened high in his throat, head thrown back, body spasming as he came undone, while Elias fucked him through it with brutal precision. When Peter came up to claim his mouth, Jon spotted the gleam of Martin’s come on his tongue, watched him force Martin to swallow. The sight made Jon’s breath catch in his throat. 

Peter loosened the ropes without entirely releasing his prey, and Martin laid in a dazed heap, face slack with pleasure. Jon focused on him, ignoring Elias and Peter as they stripped beside him. He’d never seen Martin so relaxed, so open, his face completely unguarded. That expression should have been  _ his.  _ Peter and Elias didn’t deserve to see him in that sweet and trusting state. 

Only, Jon didn’t deserve it either. He hadn’t even earned it the way Peter and Elias had, wringing the pleasure from his body with expert hands. Jon was a coward, watching something he had no right to.

That wasn’t enough to stop him, though. Nothing could make Jon turn away now, not even the sight of Peter seizing Martin’s hair to guide his mouth to his groin. His cock was so thick it barely fit in Martin’s mouth, stretching his lips obscenely before he was even properly hard. Martin’s eyes slid shut, and Jon got the impression he was savoring every moment, memorizing the scent, the taste, the hardness on his tongue. 

Would Martin be so attentive for Jon? Would he work so hard to worship his cock? Jon squirmed in his seat, trying to ease the pressure on his erection without touching it. He rarely imagined anyone touching his cock, much less taking it into their mouth, but the thought was inescapable.

“We should keep him,” Peter said, thrusting deeper into Martin’s mouth and making him moan around his cock. “Tied to the bed, ready to use any time we want. He’d be perfect for that.”.

“It suits him,” Elias said, laying possessive eyes on Martin’s body. “I do, however, think our Archivist would object.”

_ He does object, _ Jon snarled silently. 

Martin made a soft choking sound, swallowing hard around Peter’s cock. 

“As much as I love your filthy little mouth, I did promise you a good fucking,” Peter said, stroking Martin’s lips where they were stretched around his cock. He pulled out, ignoring the small, disappointed noise Martin made, and set about arranging Martin’s body to his satisfaction. 

Martin wound up kneeling on the bed, with  his upper body bent forward. His arse was in the air, legs spread, exposing him for all to see. Elias and Peter ran their hands all over him, stroking, pinching, slapping, keeping Martin off-balance and vulnerable.

Jon found himself reaching for his mobile again and dialing with closed eyes, knowing Martin was too far gone to hear the ring but unable to stop himself. The dial tone echoed in Jon’s ears as they arranged Martin with his face in Elias’s lap, as he rubbed his dripping cock over Martin’s cheek, leaving a gleaming trail across his skin. Peter crouched behind Martin, stroking and kneading his arse. 

“I don’t know if you’ve earned the right,” Elias teased. 

“H-how do I earn it?” Martin asked, licking his lips slowly. 

“You may beg for it, if you like.”  

To Jon’s shock, Martin begged for Elias’s cock without hesitation, eyes glassy with desire. Elias rebuffed him coolly, as if the evidence of his own desire weren’t pressed to Martin’s cheek. Peter took advantage of the distraction to shove his thick fingers in Martin’s arse, smirking as Martin whined and struggled against his bonds. 

“Please let me show you who I belong to,” Martin cried. 

It was exactly what Elias wanted to hear. “Good boy,” he said, pushing into Martin’s mouth with a smile that wasn’t meant for him. 

Jon’s nails dug so deeply into his palms they bled, healing over in an instant only to bleed again.  

“The Archivist really doesn’t know what he’s missing,” Elias said, ignoring Martin completely, even as he fucked his way into his mouth. 

“A pity,” Peter said. “We’ll have to enjoy the boy  _ for _ him, won’t we?” 

Jon pressed his hands to his face, willing away the image, the sounds of Martin being used. But it was impossible. He couldn’t look away for more than a moment, couldn’t bear to miss a single glimpse of Martin’s body so taut with longing.  

“So needy, our Martin,” Peter said, rubbing his cock against Martin’s hole. “Bet you wish he was here, don’t you? So he could have his turn with you.”

Martin whimpered around Elias’s cock, hips pressed as far back as they would go, seeking the contact and pressure Peter denied him.  

“He asked you a question, little whore,” Elias said, pulling out of Martin’s mouth with a wet sound. 

“P-peter,  _ please,  _ just—”

“Answer me, or you’re not getting fucked,” Peter demanded, squeezing Martin’s buttocks tight enough to bruise, so hard that Martin gasped. “You want Jon to fuck your tight little arse, don’t you?”

Jon’s face burned with shame as he watched, bracing himself for the inevitable denial. 

_ “Yes! _ I want it! I want _ him!” _ Martin cried. “God, just fuck me,  _ please.” _

Jon forgot to breathe.  _ I want him,  _ Martin had said. 

_ I want him.  _

_ I want him.  _

Elias’s eyes met Peter’s, and they both smiled, as if sharing a joke. Martin was oblivious, caught between them, half-delirious with need. 

“How can I refuse when you ask so nicely?” Peter asked, forcing his thick cock into Martin’s arse. 

Martin keened as they fucked him in tandem, using him ruthlessly. Peter gripped his arse, thrusting into him with abandon, as if he were a toy designed for his pleasure. Elias pulled Martin by the hair, a slow, deep rhythm that gave him no chance to catch his breath, no mercy, no reprieve. 

_ “Let us in, _ ” Elias ordered. 

Jon felt a sudden tugging at his chest, like a fishing hook, or an umbilical cord. It stretched between him and Martin, between Martin and Elias, and to the looming presence in the back of Jon’s mind, the god that waited to feast on them all. 

Martin looked up, uncomprehending, as Elias stroked his cheek. 

“Let. Us.  _ In.” _

Jon’s eyes snapped open, but he was trapped, unable to separate himself from the sight of the monsters fucking  _ his  _ Martin, molding him into  _ their _ image. He dialed and dialed the phone, knowing it to be futile, knowing there was no way to stop what was happening. 

He tried to shake the vision out of his sight, tried to block it out, but the mass of writhing bodies remained. Only they weren’t human bodies anymore, but something else. Elias’s body had become a mass of glistening eyes, so many Jon could scarcely see the skin beneath. The hands in Martin’s hair were claws, slicing into his scalp as he dragged Martin further onto his cock. There were bloody furrows all over Martin’s skin. Peter’s frame was made of seafoam and grey mist, a hungry, sucking void that tore at Martin’s skin and drove itself relentlessly into his body. Martin was oblivious, body wracked with pleasure, as Jon screamed aloud. 

Suddenly a third vision forced itself upon him, consuming his consciousness. Jon knew that somewhere across London, three men were entangled in bed together, two of them monsters. He knew that the beasts of eyes and of loneliness were as real as the men of flesh. But they mattered less now, because lying before him was Martin himself.

Martin couldn’t see him, but Jon saw everything: his naked skin, the grotesque eye dripping blood from his chest. Martin was soft and vulnerable, ripe for the taking, and the thought that obliterated Jon’s consciousness was,  **_MINE._ **

**_YOURS,_ ** Martin echoed, and Jon knew it to be true, knew it in his bones, his blood, his viscera, his Eye. 

In an instant, he saw everything Martin Blackwood was, had been, and would ever be, a relentless tide of information that threatened to drown him. He knew each freckle, each scar, each whorl of his fingertips. He saw the sum total of each moment, each choice, each action that had brought him here, and it all belong to him. Years unfolded in an instant, memories so old Martin didn’t remember them himself. 

It was beautiful.  

When he drew his attention back to Martin’s form, he was no longer naked but wrapped in golden chains as fine as gossamer, delicate strands that converged at his throat, forming a thick rope that stretched across the distance to Jon’s hand. 

_ What have I done?  _

Jon opened his eyes, finally able to see the world around him again, the quiet empty room he’d left. His mobile showed exactly how many times he had tried in vain to reach Martin. He looked down for a long moment and then threw it as hard as he could, watching it shatter against the wall, before covering his face with his hands. 

Behind his eyelids, Martin arched his back and screamed around Elias’s cock. His face was wet with tears. Jon watched as Peter and Elias used his limp body to completion. Afterwards, two men laid there, stroking Martin like a coddled pet. 

Finally, the vision faded. Jon had seen all he needed to see.

* * *

 

Martin wasn’t surprised to find the driver waiting to collection him when he opened the door to leave Peter’s flat. If the driver had any opinion on the late hour or Martin’s appearance  _ (hair damp from the shower, throat stained with violet bruises) _ , he said nothing. Peter probably did this all the time, Martin realized.

He could feel his god curled up inside him, nestled safely in the back of his mind. He felt Beholding on every inch of his skin, in the bruises on his body, the soreness in his throat and...elsewhere. His god drank the drowsy pleasure that still flowed through him, laid possessive hands on the cold, hard knot in his chest. He felt like he’d been pulled straight out of his skin and crammed back in again, only the parts didn’t fit right. 

London was oddly quiet this time of night, when most of the party crowd had returned home, and most of the early risers hadn’t yet woken. It was oddly unsettling, as if Peter had dragged him into his domain. He wondered if the driver had seen Peter feed his god, and decided he’d rather not know. 

His mobile was cradled in his lap. Seventeen missed calls from Jonathan Sims. That couldn’t be a coincidence. 

Martin bit his lip. There was nothing like knowing your former boss had watched you get fucked six equally humiliating ways to Sunday. Nothing like your former boss knowing you  _ liked  _ it. 

_ You’ve been mine all along, you realize,  _ Elias whispered in his ear, and Martin shivered. 

_ “Bet you wish he was here, don’t you? So he could have his turn with you.” _

_ He asked you a question, little whore. _

_ Yes! I want it! I want _ him!  _ God, just fuck me,  _ please.

He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could disappear. They’d known the whole time exactly who was watching him, and he’d played into their hands like an idiot. 

Jon would never want to see him again—how could he? Knowing Martin wanted nothing more than to be fucked and used by anyone who’d have him. Knowing it was  _ Jon  _ he’d thought about as they’d fucked him,  _ Jon  _ he’d wanted to expose him, to degrade him, to use him like he didn’t matter. It was the best sex of his life, and it cost him everything. 

Well, almost everything. He still had his god inside him, ready to fill him with its terrible knowledge. He could still help Jon, even if Jon never wanted to lay eyes on him again. 

He was startled from his thoughts when the car door opened. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been parked outside his flat; the driver’s face was impassive as ever. Martin hurried to his feet and hastily thanked him, though he got no response.

The stairs had never seemed so long, his body throbbing with secret aches as he climbed. He prayed his neighbors would stay in their flats. He didn’t think he could face anyone just yet. 

His apartment was just as dark and empty as when he’d left, looking all the tattier after the opulence he’d left. He tried to picture Peter and Elias in his flat, or even Jon, but it felt wrong. They didn’t belong there any more than Martin had belonged in that penthouse. 

He didn’t bother getting undressed, just collapsed face-down on his bed.

* * *

 

Jon promised himself he would let it go. He took a shower, trying not to relive the sights and sounds of Martin’s defilement as he took himself in hand, stroking himself harshly. But every time he pushed it away, he saw Martin’s face again, his cheeks flushed, face slack with pleasure as Peter and Elias fucked him. 

His face burned with shame as he tried to focus on the mechanics of masturbation, on the slickness of skin on skin, a simple provision of stimulus to quell his body’s distracting needs. There was no need to make it more significant than eating or sleeping or brushing his teeth. But he kept seeing Martin’s desperate face before him, kept hearing him cry out,  _ Yes, I want it! I want _ him! as he begged to be fucked, and suddenly Jon was coming against the shower tiles, so hard he was forced to grip the slick wall for balance. 

He’d hoped that giving into his baser needs would help him sleep, but he laid awake afterwards, counting the cracks in the ceiling. It took no effort to see that Martin had made it home and was in bed, though he hadn’t undressed or even covered himself. Jon felt a surge of tenderness, a need to tuck him under the blankets, but he was too far away. 

After an hour or so of watching Martin sleep, safe and alone in his bed, Jon finally gave up on rest. He brewed a pot of tea and pored over statements until well after dawn. 

_ Miles away, Martin dreamt of a day he’d spent by the sea with his mother, playing in the sand. Martin’s father was there, though he hadn’t been there in years, and his parents watched with pride as he built a small castle and adorned it with shells. _

Jon blinked the vision away, forcing his attention back to the statement. He was used to seeing others’ dreams by now, but not in the daylight. And nothing like Martin’s dreams. 

He had finished the statement and was recording his impressions when Martin flooded his consciousness again. 

_ Martin was kneeling before a robed figure, head bowed in reverence. A scarred hand settled in his hair.  _

_ “To whom do you belong?” _

_ Martin’s eyes slid shut as long fingers stroked his hair, then gripped it tightly. He leaned into the harsh touch.  _

_ “You, Jon,” he whispered. “You and only you.”  _

That was the moment Jon’s resolve broke. Before he knew what was happening, he’d already grabbed his keys and pulled on the first clothes he could reach. 

He didn’t have Martin’s address, but he knew exactly where to find him.

* * *

 

Jon knew he was knocking too loudly, could feel the irritation of Martin’s neighbors seeping through the walls, but he didn’t care. He could sense the first stirrings of consciousness deep in the apartment as the noise reached Martin, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop until the door opened beneath his fist. 

His heart ached in his chest as he caught sight of Martin’s sleep-tousled hair, his face still creased from the pillow. He was wearing the same clothes as last night, minus the trainers. Jon’s hand itched to push the tangled locks from Martin’s face, to stroke the line the pillowcase had left on his face, but he clenched his fists by his side. 

Martin’s eyes widened as he realized who was at his door, and he clapped a hand to his mouth in horror, staring mutely. A wave of guilt poured over Jon, recalling all the sights he’d had no right to see, invited or not. 

“Martin,” Jon began. 

Martin shook his head mutely, looking away. Jon suppressed the urge to touch him again. 

A door twitched open behind them, and Jon made the hasty decision  _ not  _ to have this conversation in public, pushing past Martin and shutting the door behind him. He made a beeline for the sitting room, pacing around the cramped space as Martin watched him, hand still clasped over his mouth. 

_ “Why did you do it?” _ Jon demanded. “What could you possibly—?”

Jon stopped, raking a hand through his hair and deeply wishing he had a cigarette. A whole pack of cigarettes. There weren’t enough cigarettes in the world for this. 

“...I’m sorry,” Martin said quietly. 

“That’s not a  _ why,  _ Martin!”

Martin cringed, and Jon immediately hated himself, but not enough to stop. 

“I didn’t know you would...god,” Martin said, raking a hand through his tangled hair. “How much did you see?”

“All of it,” Jon said flatly. “From the moment you arrived to when they...were finished with you.”

“And you...heard?”

“All of it,” Jon repeated. 

Martin sat down hard on the couch, covering his hands with his face. Jon itched to pry his hands away, to reproach him for hiding what was his to see, but he had just enough self-restraint to stay where he was.

“God, Jon, I’m so sorry,” Martin said through his fingers. His body was beginning to tremble all over. “I didn’t know. I never—god, they knew the whole  _ time _ , didn’t they?”

“Peter texted me beforehand,” Jon said quietly.

_ “Fuck.”  _

“How  _ could  _ you, Martin? How could you let them  _ use _ you like that? You’re not stupid, you had to know—”

“What do you care, Jon?” Martin snapped. “How is that any of your business?”

“You let them hurt you! You let them hit you, and ch-choke you, and leave bruises! They called you their—” The word caught Jon’s his throat, and he swallowed. “Their  _ whore.” _

“So what, Jon?” Martin demanded. “What if I  _ liked it?” _

Jon stopped in his tracks, staring at Martin. Martin had lowered his hands and was staring at him, damp-eyed and defiant, though his face was flushed. 

“What do you mean?” Jon said slowly. 

“I knew they were using me, Jon, even if I didn’t know what for. I’m not  _ stupid.” _ he spat. “I—liked being used. I liked it when they, when they called me those things, and when they talked about—about  _ keeping _ me. I liked feeling useful, feeling  _ wanted, _ even if I was just a toy to make them come.”

More quietly, Martin said, “I wanted to belong to someone.”

“You don’t belong to them,” Jon snapped. 

“What—?”

Before Jon could stop himself, he was kneeling next to Martin on the couch, hands gripping each of Martin’s wrists as he told him, “You belong to  _ me.” _

Martin’s eyes widened, and he stared in silent shock. 

“You  _ told  _ me you were mine, I heard you,” Jon insisted, eyes fixed on Martin’s face. “You gave yourself to me in ways they’ll never understand, bathed in the light of Beholding. They haven’t seen you as you truly are. I _ have.” _

“What are you—?”

Jon switched his grip to hold both of Martin’s wrists in one hand, using the other to touch Martin’s forehead. 

_ —Martin, exposed before his gaze, ichor dripping from his naked eye; gold chains gleaming around his throat; the back arching as he cried with every fiber of his being,  _ **_YOURS—_ **

Martin gasped as Jon let the vision dissipate around them. 

“Do I need to hurt you like them?” Jon demanded. “Do I need to use you like a cheap toy?” 

Martin moaned, head tilting back to expose his throat. Jon leaned in to close his teeth over the tender skin as Martin began to shake with something other than fear. 

“Please,” Martin whimpered. Jon closed his lips around the bruised flesh and sucked hard, relishing the small, broken sound from Martin’s throat. He hardly recognized himself, spurred by fear and need and desire. 

Driven by instinct, Jon pressed their mouths together, stealing the low sigh that escaped from Martin’s lips, prying his way in with lips and tongue and teeth. Martin melted beneath him, and Jon pressed his advantage, claiming every inch of skin he could reach with his desperate hands. 

“You’re not theirs,” Jon said fervently. “No matter what they do to you.”

Martin nodded dreamily, spreading his thighs so Jon could rest between them, pressing their bodies as close as they would go. Jon’s heart sang at the show of submission. Martin’s cock was hard against Jon’s thigh, but he didn’t attempt to gain more pressure, didn’t seek more than Jon gave him. 

“Tell me who you belong to,” Jon ordered. 

“You, Jon,” Martin said helplessly. “Only you.”

“Let me prove it,” Jon said. 

At Martin’s nod, Jon yanked him up and pulled him toward the bedroom. He spared a moment to be thankful Peter and Elias hadn’t defiled Martin’s bed, though some part of him would have loved to cover their stains with his own. 

He pushed Martin with both hands squarely on his chest until he hit the bed with a small  _ oof _ . The sound almost made him smile as he straddled Martin’s thighs. He pulled the t-shirt up to Martin’s chest, hands spreading to take in the texture of his skin, the soft belly, the dusting of hair on his chest. His pulse rushed with new knowledge, filling the yawning gaps from before, when he’d only been able to watch. 

“You can say no,” Jon told him, rubbing his thumbs over Martin’s nipples, relishing the sharp gasp he provoked. “I’ll stop, I swear—just tell me—”

_ “Please _ don’t stop,” Martin said helplessly. 

Jon bent to taste the ripe pink flesh, drinking in the low whimpers he drew from Martin’s throat, loving the way the skin pebbled and hardened under his tongue. When he finally sucked one of the firm buds into his mouth, Martin gasped and thrashed against the bed. Jon followed it with a sharp nip, and Martin  _ sobbed.  _

“Please, Jon!” he begged. 

Jon kissed his chest before pulling back. “Shirt off,” he ordered. 

Martin scrambled to obey, squirming out of his shirt before Jon pinned his wrists overhead, kissing him breathless. 

“I don’t have to tie you to keep you in place, do I?” Jon said, only realizing the words were true as he spoke them. “You’ll hold still for me all on your own.”

“Yes, Jon,” Martin promised breathlessly. 

“Good boy,” Jon said, because he knew the words made Martin shiver. He planted one last kiss on his lips before proceeding downward.  

He made a thorough study of Martin’s body, cataloguing the sounds Martin made when Jon brushed curious fingers under his arms, over his hip bones, in the dip of his belly button. The more he touched, the more he craved to claim. Martin’s skin broke out in gooseflesh, as if every hair in every follicle were reaching for Jon. His body was an instrument made for Jon’s hands, waiting to wake from his touch. 

Martin trembled as Jon thumbed open the button on his jeans. 

“Are you sure—?”

“Sure of what?” Jon asked, pulling down the fly and parting the fabric with both hands. The sight of cartoon badgers greeted him again. 

“I mean, you don’t—do you?” Martin said, biting his lip. 

“Are you forcing me?” Jon asked, raising an eyebrow. “Was this  _ your  _ idea?”

“No, but—”

“Unless you tell me no, I’m going to have you in every way possible,” Jon explained, stroking Martin’s flanks as he would a startled horse. “Because I want to. Because you’re  _ mine.  _ Agreed?”

Martin shuddered beneath him, nodding fervently.  

Jon had never been a confident lover, but he was driven by the need to possess, to uncover all the secrets of Martin’s body, and Martin was giving him all the encouragement he needed. He yanked Martin’s jeans down, and Martin wriggled obediently out of them. His hands stayed pinned overhead. The sight sent a jolt of vicious satisfaction through him. 

Martin’s cock was already hard for him, flushed and pink and wanting. Jon kissed the head of it, the barest brush of lips, and felt Martin shudder. He mouthed at it gently, tracing the curve of it with his lips just to hear Martin gasp and swear. Jon felt an answering hardness stir between his legs, a rare occurrence for him, but not an unwelcome one.  

When Jon finally took the head into his mouth, Martin groaned deep in his chest. His flesh tested of salt with a hint of sweetness. Jon committed the flavor to memory, along with every gasp, every moan, every shiver. 

Despite his desperation, Martin never thrust or bucked, far more polite than his lovers had been with him. Jon suckled carefully. His hands traced patterns down Martin’s thighs, across his hips, even straying between his cheeks. He rolled his bollocks between curious fingers, treasuring the high whine he drew from Martin’s throat. 

Martin’s thighs twitched beneath him. “Jon, Jon, I’m going to—”

Jon’s hands clamped down on Martin’s hips as he sucked harder, chasing his reward as Martin shuddered and spasmed, coming down his throat. Jon swallowed around his softening cock, making him shiver and squirm. 

Martin was wrecked, Jon noted with pride. His hair had become a tangled snarl around his face, and a few sweat-damp strands stuck to his forehead. His lips were raw and pink from being bitten. 

“You’re being so good for me,” Jon marveled, stroking Martin’s bruised lips with his thumb. “Would you like more?”

“God, yes, please,” Martin whispered. 

Jon paused to remove his own clothing, quickly and mechanically, knowing Martin was watching every move. Marvin whimpered aloud when he caught his first glimpse of Jon’s half-hard cock. 

“Is this what you want?” Jon asked, wrapping his cock in a loose fist. Martin’s hungry expression made his heart race. He wasn’t accustomed to holding so much power over someone. He feared he could grow used to it.

“I’ll take whatever you give me,” Martin said honestly. 

Jon’s chest burned with pride. 

“I know you will,” Jon told him, “but what do you want?”

Martin’s face flushed as he said, “I want to—to suck your cock. Please.”

Martin wound up with his head propped on a pillow with Jon straddling his chest as he took himself in hand. He paused with the tip of his cock on Martin’s cheek, savoring the picture they made, and Martin let out a low whimper.  

Jon could see why Peter and Elias had taken such pleasure in bullying him, in making him beg, in forcing themselves into Martin’s mouth until he choked. Jon had no such need, so long as Martin kept looking up at him with that rapt expression. 

“You won’t be able to make me come like this,” Jon warned. “That’s not the point.”

Martin nodded, and Jon began feeding his cock into his mouth, slowly, inexorably. Martin’s mouth was warm and inviting, the motions of his tongue so gentle Jon shivered. He stopped before he hit the back of Martin’s throat, pulling back to trace the line of his lips with his cock. 

The image of Peter and Elias doing the same came to him unbidden, but he banished it, focusing on what he saw  _ now:  _ Martin, soft and pliant below him. 

“You’re doing so well,” Jon murmured. “Are you ready for more?”

Martin nodded, parting his lips again, and Jon slid back into the wet cavern of his mouth. In the past, Jon had tried to rush to orgasm for his lovers’ sake, wanting to spare them the tedium of spending hours building to a single moment, but now he operated on hunger and instinct.

Martin’s eyes slid shut as Jon thrust into his mouth, slowly gaining speed. 

“You can touch me if you like,” Jon said, and Martin’s hands slid up his thighs, cradling his hips, squeezing his arse in encouragement. Jon took that as permission to go deeper, and he shuddered as Martin swallowed around him. 

Jon lost track of time as he claimed Martin’s mouth, watching each flutter of his eyelids, savoring each moan that spilled from his throat. By the time he pulled out, Martin’s lips were red and swollen, shining with saliva. 

Jon had no choice but to lean down and kiss him, sighing into his mouth that tasted of salt and Jon’s own musk. He wanted to rub himself all over Martin’s skin, to leave his taste and scent on him like an animal, but he fought the instinct down. 

“God, you taste so good,” Martin moaned. 

Jon growled and bit down on the side of his neck, pleased with the way it made Martin tense and whine and bare his throat even further. His  fingers trailed down Martin’s body, lower and lower, until they traced the cleft of his buttocks. 

“Do you have anything?” he asked, prodding the tight little pucker. Martin bit down on a groan and pointed to the bedside table, and Jon rewarded him with a kiss. 

Opening the drawer, Jon found more than just lubricant: a sleek silicone vibrator in cotton candy pink; a set of wrist and ankle cuffs with matching collar, souvenirs of a past relationship. He contemplated obtaining his own set for Martin, but nothing compared to the gold chains from his vision. It might, however, be interesting to watch Martin struggle once more against restraints. For observation’s sake.  

Leaning down, Jon pushed Martin’s legs up and open. Martin’s skin was growing slick with sweat, and he made a low noise as Jon prodded his hole. Jon rubbed his face against Martin’s thighs, knew his stubble scraped the tender flesh. There were bruises on his buttocks, ranging from deep purple-black ones to green and yellow, and he soothed them with his palms. 

Spreading the cheeks with his thumbs, Jon took a hesitant lick. He’d never done this particular act before, but he meant to claim all of Martin, and the lack of data—the inability to know the yielding of his flesh, the taste of his skin—had maddened him when he watched Peter do it. 

The clench of Martin’s thighs told him all he needed to know. Encouraged, Jon licked a stripe all the way from his tailbone to his perineum, sucking the tender flesh until Martin cried out. It only made Jon crave more, and he gripped Martin’s hips tight, burying his face between his spread thighs. 

He trailed his way to Martin’s hole, leaving a trail of bites and kisses, marking the way with saliva and small bruises as Martin encouraged him wordlessly. He licked his way inward, possessively, inexorably, enjoying the clench of tight muscle around his tongue. 

“Jon, Jon, _please,_ Jon,” Martin begged, turning his name into a litany, a prayer, his pleas falling like rosary beads from a cut string. “Just fuck me, _please—”_

Something inside Jon purred in satisfaction, proud to see Martin reduced to a writhing mass of need. He gave Martin’s hole one last, lingering kiss before looking up. 

Tears were gathered in the corners of Martin’s eyes, and he pulled Jon up for a damp and desperate embrace. Jon kissed his eyelids, tasting saline. 

“Who do you belong to?” Jon asked impulsively. “I want you to say it. Please.”

_ “You!” _

Jon kissed him again, this time on the lips. He reached for the lubricant, but they were both too impatient to do more than smear it on his cock before Jon lined himself up. 

He paused to look into Martin’s face, open and earnest and desperate for him. Then he slowly sank into his  body. Martin made a sound as if he were dying, shuddering and gripping him tight, inside and out. 

“You’re doing so well, Martin,” Jon murmured against his chest, pressing kisses against the slick skin. “You’re being so good for me.”

“God, Jon, don’t stop—”

Slowly, without taking his eyes off Martin’s face, Jon picked up speed, a shuddering, breathy rhythm. He pushed deep into Martin’s slick heat, then pulled out until Martin’s body gripped only the tip of his cock. The sensations were dizzying, but Jon didn’t need them as much as he needed to feel Martin’s skin, hear his desperate cries, smell the sweat and need that poured off him in waves. 

When Jon closed his eyes, everything changed. 

The room was dark, nearly black, but Martin shone before him, luminous, the only source of light for as far as Jon could see. The skin of Martin’s chest shuddered and twitched, opening a window into his gleaming interior. Jon wasted no time plunging his hands inside, greedily, until they were slick with blood and ichor. Martin smiled up at him, beatific, as Jon licked the blood from his fingers. 

Jon plunged his hands deeper, gripping and pulling, widening the rent in Martin’s body until nothing was hidden from Jon’s gaze. Golden chains glimmered at his wrists, and ankles, around his throat, and Jon pulled them until they bit into Martin’s skin. 

**_Yours._ **

**_Mine._ **

Deep inside himself, Jon screamed, horror mingled with ecstasy, need with revulsion, possession with pain. 

Distantly, he felt Martin clench around him, desperately tight, a low keening cry escaping his lips. Jon opened his eyes to find the blood and chains gone, leaving only Martin, panting and human and  _ whole _ beneath him. Martin’s orgasm shook his whole body, making him shudder and spasm and grip Jon’s shoulders so tight his nails drew blood. 

“Jon, Jon—” 

Pulling out, Jon gripped his cock tightly, drinking in the sight of Martin covered in sweat and semen, every inch of him  _ Jon’s.  _ He came with a low grunt, painting Martin’s skin with ropes of pearly white come, wishing he could rub it in, leaving an indelible mark on Martin’s skin. 

Martin’s arms pulled him down, and Jon went obediently, letting Martin wrap him in a warm embrace, his head pillowed on Martin’s shoulder. Their bodies fit together impossibly well. Jon wanted to remain there forever, wrapped in Martin’s warmth. 

The urgency of their coupling began to fade, leaving room for shame. Shame at his behavior, at the ridiculous things he’d growled in Martin’s ear, the way he had bitten and scratched and otherwise manhandled him. 

“I—I’m so sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me.” 

He gripped Martin tight, burying his face in his soft chest as if he could hide from what he’d done. 

“What on earth are you talking about?” Martin asked sleepily. 

“I—I can’t  _ own  _ you,” Jon said. “I—god, if you want to sleep with other people, that’s not even my business. I just—just the sight of them—I couldn’t stand them knowing you that way, without  _ me _ knowing you, too. And that’s just childish.”

“I suppose we could have substituted actually  _ talking  _ instead of...well...this,” Martin admitted. “But in case you didn’t notice, I was pretty keen.”

“But—”

Martin seized his hand and gripped it tightly, sending Jon a flood of sensation: the near-unbearable pleasure of Jon’s touch; the satisfaction of being wanted, marked,  _ claimed. _

Jon brought Martin’s hand to his lips, too stunned to speak. 

_ “Oh,” _ he said finally. 

“Exactly,” Martin said, pulling him closer. “This whole situation is fucked up, but if I can have you like this, even just once, it’s worth it.”

“I’m not sure you’ll ever be free of me,” Jon said quietly. “I didn’t have your address. I just sort of... _ knew. _ Afterwards.”

“If I’m stuck with you, you’re stuck with me.” Martin kissed the top of Jon’s hair, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine. 

After a long moment, Jon said, “They must have had some motive. They had to have...known.” 

Elias was probably laughing at them from his prison cell. 

“Maybe they wanted to draw us in deeper, to use us against each other,” Martin said. “Maybe they just wanted to manipulate us for manipulation’s sake. Hard to tell with those two.”

Jon gripped Martin tighter, vowing inwardly to keep him safe. Safe from whatever machinations Elias had put in place. Safe from Peter Lukas’s god. 

Safe from Jon himself, if it came to it.  

“God, I’m filthy,” Martin said, looking down at where their semen was beginning to dry on his chest and belly. 

“I like you that way,” Jon blurted out. Martin flushed all the way to his chest. 

“I could hardly tell,” Martin said dryly. “There’s baby wipes in the drawer. I’m too exhausted to shower again.  _ Someone _ wouldn’t let me sleep.”

Jon peeled himself from Martin’s chest just enough to fetch the wipes from the drawer. He took the task of cleaning Martin upon himself: his chest, his belly and thighs, even the cleft of his arse, still smeared with lube. Martin bit his lip at the last part, turning an even deeper pink. 

“I can...go, if you like,” Jon offered. 

“Get your bony arse back here,” Martin said, patting the space by his side. 

Jon slid back under the blankets, curled up against Martin’s side as Martin petted him like a cat, long soothing strokes down his back and flanks. Jon found he didn’t mind that at all. 

As he closed his eyes, he drifted down into the space of his mind. The weight of Beholding pressed in from all sides, waiting to submerge him, to subsume him in its vast depths. All he needed to do was open the door. 

It was a familiar vision. Only now, the waters churned faster, currents beating at the walls of his mind. And nestled beside him was a single figure, wrapped in chains. An anchor, or a fellow victim; a savior, or an acolyte. 

Casting the vision aside, Jon buried his face in Martin’s chest until sleep claimed them. They dreamed of the sea, of currents and undertow, and of a small, bolted door. 

Miles away, Elias watched from his narrow cot, and smiled.


End file.
